


Like Juno's Swans

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Phryne did not believe in the occult or regrets, but there were times--often, when she was younger, but less so every year--when she wondered what she would do if given a chance to live her life over, to change one little moment. So when a man told her that he could send her to any time in her life for 72 hours, she took it. It was madness, of course, likely the ramblings of a delusional individual, but she had not lived her life by shying away from the possibilities. And that was how she found herself in the Collingwood of December 1913, five days before the disappearance of Janey Fisher.Phryne is determined to save her sister. There's always a price.July's trope fic





	Like Juno's Swans

Phryne did not believe in the occult or regrets, but there were times--often, when she was younger, but less so every year--when she wondered what she would do if given a chance to live her life over, to change one little moment. So when a man told her that he could send her to any time in her life for 72 hours, she took it. It was madness, of course, likely the ramblings of a delusional individual, but she had not lived her life by shying away from the possibilities. And that was how she found herself in the Collingwood of December 1913, five days before the disappearance of Janey Fisher.

It was, in theory, a very simple matter: Approach the local constabulary with information about the kidnapping of Myrtle Hill--not Foyle’s name, which would lead to far too many questions without answers and therefore her dismissal as a madwoman, but a physical description, a hint. If they were foolish enough not to take it, she’d damn well push them until they did. And until then she would watch Foyle herself, ensure that justice was done and the bodies of his other victims recovered.

She took a small room in a boarding house, found a copy of _The Argus_ that covered Myrtle Hill’s abduction, and stared at her reflection in the dingy mirror or her room. The urge to go to Collingwood, watch her younger self and Janey playing as they always did, with no idea of what was to come… but she didn’t have time, could not risk her goal for a moment of sentimentality. 

Bracing herself, she left the room and headed to the police station in Richmond. As she walked, she marvelled at how very different life had become in a mere twenty years. The fashions, the assumptions, even the number of motorcars on the road. She weighed her options; gaining police cooperation would require a far more delicate touch than even her first cases with Jack, and certainly more than their current arrangements. Which mostly consisted of Phryne sashaying onto the crime scene, slipping an innuendo-laden comment into the conversation, and getting the information while Jack was too flustered to respond. She suspected that it was mostly pretense, but as it was both fun and efficient, she let it stand. The point remained, it was not a feasible option. She would have to favour subtlety if she wanted to make headway. 

\------

Arriving at Richmond Police Station, Phryne paused once more, looking for any holes in her story. She knew Myrtle Hill had been found at the nearby church, and therefore officers from this station would be the ones assigned to her case. All she would need to do was go in, introduce herself to the man in charge of the investigation, and explain that she’d seen a strange man with ‘the girl in the newspaper’ shortly before her abduction. Myrtle herself had been too terrified to provide a detailed sketch, and Phryne’s first step was to remedy that. A detailed sketch, released to the public in hopes someone would identify him. Inveigle herself into the investigation, push them into the right direction. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was very good.

Drawing herself to her full height, she mounted the few steps and walked into the station. There was a young man at the desk, and she turned on him with a smile.

“I would like to speak to the officer in charge of the Myrtle Hill investigation,” she said.

“That would be Sergeant Samuels,” the constable said.

Phryne waited for him to move, and when he didn’t she raised an eyebrow.

“Please _fetch_ Sergeant Samuels,” she said. “This really is terribly important.”

“Your name, ma’am?”

“Miss Fern Stanley,” she said, then took the newspaper with Myrtle’s account out of her handbag. “I saw this girl with a man, and I can provide a detailed description.”

The constable moved with no sense of urgency, and Phryne strangled the rising irritation. He returned a moment later with a man in his early fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a rather impressive mustache.

“Miss Stanley,” he said, “Sergeant Fred Samuels. I understand you believe you witnessed Myrtle Hill’s abduction?”

“Not the abduction,” Phryne corrected. “I saw her speaking with a man that afternoon.”

“Where was this?”

“Near St. Mary’s school, at the tram stop. Just after three o’clock.”

Samuels nodded. It wasn’t anything that couldn’t be extrapolated from the newspaper article.

“Come through,” he said, motioning her into the back of the station and towards a small office. Phryne took the offered seat. “Tell me more.”

“I was walking home,” she explained. “I saw Miss Hill speaking with a man, and there was something… unnerving about him, I suppose. But they seemed to know each other, and I kept walking. I’ve been out of town since, and when I returned I saw this article.” She held up the newspaper once more. “With Myrtle’s photograph and a sketch of the suspect.”

Samuels nodded. “And you…?”

“I can provide a more detailed sketch, if you have an artist who can take direction,” Phryne said. “This one could be half the men in Melbourne at least. And I can tell you that is accent was educated--perhaps you could ask around the university?”

Samuels raised a doubtful eyebrow. “I’ll take that into consideration, Miss Stanley. A sketch of the man would be helpful. If you could come back this afternoon at two, I’ll have you sit with an artist.”

“Of course,” she said. 

Samuels turned to some paperwork on his desk, a clear dismissal. 

_Well_ , she thought as she stood and left the office, _that could have gone better_. 

\------

Taking the tram to Abbottsford, Phryne headed to Foyle’s antiquities shop. She would need to watch him without tipping him off, and part of her wanted to look him straight in the eyes and know that he’d never hurt another girl again. When she had been offered this chance she had tried to imagine a way to save all the girls--murder was forbidden, it had been one of the few conditions on the agreement--and been unable to find one. But she could save Janey, bring Foyle down. Bring the girls home, give grieving families answers instead of fifteen years of purgatory. 

She pushed the door open, stepping inside. She had her grandmother’s swallow pin with her; it was not old enough to be a real interest to Foyle, but she could at least use it as a pretense for being in the shop. Foyle must have heard the door, because he came out from the back of the shop to greet her.

Phryne made small talk, meeting his eyes at every moment. He was charming and confident, but the pure evil that rolled off of him tainted the air. She wondered how nobody had noticed, whether someone could have stopped him before his madness cost girls their lives. No, not girls; they deserved names, if nothing else. Joan Rosen. Deirdre Kelly. Iris Fulton. Victims of Murdoch Foyle, but Phryne would bring them home. She would save Janey. She would change history.

She stayed as long as she could, memorising Foyle’s features as they were now, and not the man she’d faced in 1928. When it was time to return to the police station, she was certain that she could provide a detailed description that would lead the police straight to his door.

\------

There was a young constable at the desk when Phryne steamed into the office--really, the clothing of the era was rather restrictive and not at all conducive to steaming of any sort--and headed towards the small office where Sergeant Samuels worked.

“Excuse me, miss!”

That voice. There was no mistaking it, whether on the radio or in the boudoir, and she turned.

“Yes, constable?”

It was Jack. Younger, definitely, but unmistakably Jack. Which was a complication she had hoped to avoid, but really hadn’t done enough to prevent. She had somehow presumed that he had always been stationed at City South, could not imagine the building without him. She might be able to use this to her advantage though; she beamed at him.

“You mustn’t go back there, miss.”

“Nonsense. Sergeant Samuels is expecting me.”

“Be that as it may…” he began to round the counter to stand before the gate separating private and public parts of the station. 

Could he not be an easily cowed young constable, like Hugh? But no, it seemed Jack’s unflappable reactions were a long-standing matter. She smirked. How positively delicious… not that she could do anything about it, under the circumstances--this Jack would be newly married, not to mention twenty years younger. She didn’t like her meat quite that tender nowadays, but it was strange to see the man she knew quite so youthful. 

She smiled radiantly.

“Really, it’s a terribly important matter.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here, Miss…?”

“Fern Stanley,” she supplied promptly, moving to go around him. “And really, I’m quite capable of delivering my own messages. But thank you for your courtesy.”

He looked at her dryly, refusing to move. She was contemplating whether she could get away with stepping on his foot and pushing past when Samuels himself emerged from the back.

“Miss Stanley! Constable Robinson, let the lady through.”

He stepped back grudgingly, and Phryne smiled extra sweetly at him in response. Reaching the hallway, she turned, waving her fingers at the young man with a flirty smile.

“Thank you for your diligence, constable!”

\------

Samuels led Phryne into a small office, taking a seat behind his desk. 

“Miss Stanley,” he said. “Thank you for coming in this afternoon.”

Phryne glanced at the closed door, mind racing as she tried to account for the new developments.

“That constable,” she said. “I’m certain I’ve met him before.”

“Jack Robinson,” Samuels said brusquely. “One of our most promising recruits, and married to the daughter of the Chief Inspector of Melbourne. He’s usually stationed on the other side of the river, but he’s covering for one of my men.”

“Ah,” Phryne said. “I got family that way, must have run into him while he was patrolling.”

Samuels nodded, opening his palms upwards.

“Our artist will be here in a few moments. Please, take a seat. Could I offer you tea?”

Phryne shook her head. It would be best to keep Jack out of things, avoid complicating the experience as much as possible. But there was something reassuring in knowing that he was there all the same. She sat in one of the visitor’s chairs, folding her hands neatly on her lap and fiddling with the edge of her lace glove. 

“Where did you say you saw Miss Hill and the man again?” asked Samuels.

“Uhh, the tram stop.”

Samuels nodded, giving that gently coaxing look that told Phryne exactly what he thought about her--useful, possibly, but still less.

“Which one, Miss Stanley?”

“The one by St. Mary’s school,” she replied.

“There are two,” said Samuels. “Can you remember which one?”

She couldn’t. She’d read the files, she’d planned her approach, and now she was to be tripped up over a small memory lapse. 

“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “I noticed the school, but…”

Samuels nodded, already less invested in her account. Damn it.

The sketch artist arrived a moment later, and Phryne gave her instructions. She could not help but remember the last time she had done such a thing, thirteen years old and describing her missing sister. Her parents had been no use, her mother panicked and her father already searching for Janey at the bottom of a pint glass, and so Phryne had taken the responsibility on her shoulders, providing what little information she could, still hoping her sister would be found. She had wandered off, perhaps, been distracted by some new adventure. Phryne, for all her cynicism and experience at that age, could not fathom the truth. Janey was gone, snatched by a madman with delusions of grandeur. As the man’s face appeared upon the sketchpad-- “His eyes were set further apart,” she instructed--the truth hit her once more, until she held onto her control with the barest of her fingertips. 

“That’s him,” she eventually said, the oppressive heat of the stuffy office making it hard to breath. Her hands were shaking as she stood.

“We’ll let you know if we hear anything,” Samuels said dismissively. “Good day, Miss Stanley.”

\------

Leaving the station as quickly as she could, Phryne took steadying breaths until her panic abated. She wished that Jack, her Jack, was there; someone who knew the history, had seen her shadows, was steadying and warm and insightful. She paced angrily up and down the road twice, and was just eyeing the station doors again--intending to give Sergeant Samuels a piece of her mind, subtlety be damned--when they opened, and Jack stepped out.

“Miss Stanley,” he said, loping down the few steps with galling lightness of foot. “Did you require…?”

“No, thank you, constable,” Phryne said, voice strained. Jack nodded, watching her curiously for a moment.

“I was just stepping out for lunch,” he explained. “The sergeant is still in his office though.”

Phryne gave an exasperated growl, resisting the urge to tug the hat from her head and stomp on it in a fit of pique.

“Are all you men so damned stubborn?” she asked.

“I… perhaps--I mean…” The poor man looked utterly befuddled, and Phryne forced herself to smile at him.

“I’m afraid your Sergeant Samuels did not take me seriously,” she explained. 

“Were you reporting a crime?” Jack asked.

“Witness to one, I think,” Phryne said. “That girl who disappeared? Myrtle Hill?”

Jack nodded. “I’m familiar with the case.”

“I saw her with a man the day before she disappeared. I’ve done a sketch, but he doesn’t seem to be taking me seriously.”

He nodded again, then glanced down the road. 

“I was headed to the pie cart,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

\------

Choosing two pies, Phryne and Jack found a nearby bench and sat down. She found herself stealing glances at him, at once so familiar and so foreign--age and experience hadn’t yet given him the lines she loved so much, and the heavy woolen uniform was a far cry from the careful suits she associated with him. He bit into his pie with relish, smirking as he did so; a crumb lingered on the corner of his mouth, and Phryne resisted the urge to brush it away. 

“Do you often come to the cart?” she asked, aiming for conversational. “I would have thought your wife would make lunch.”

“How did you know I was married?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I can always tell,” Phryne bluffed, then smirked. “And Samuels mentioned it in passing.”

Jack chuckled, more easily than her Jack did but the same tone. “I suppose I should get used to gossip,” he said.

_Darling, you have no idea_ , she thought, but merely smiled. 

“And to answer your question, Rosie was… unwell this morning,” he said, and there was a mixture of hope and terror that cut straight through Phryne. It didn’t take a great deal of math to remember his hope for a baby that never came to be. “But I’m quite happy to fend for myself.”

“A great deal of marriages would be happier if that was a universal attitude, constable,” she said, taking a delicate bite of her own pie to keep from saying anything else.

He laughed again, and Phryne smiled at him. How little he knew.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You seem…”

“Familiar?” Phryne supplied, and he nodded.

“Somewhat.”

“I get that often,” she lied. They had always been like this, it seemed, and not even the disparity in their life experiences in this moment could take it away. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a moment, then he cleared his throat.

“About this case, Miss Stanley…”

She knew she should keep him out of it, ripple the pond as little as possible, be unmemorable. But she found herself tilting her head to look at him, years of trust drawing the truth from her despite her better judgment.

“My sister disappeared when we were children,” Phryne explained. “I would do anything to bring her back. The idea that I might have seen something… I won’t be dismissed. Not if it can save another girl’s life.”

_Not if it could save Janey’s life._

Jack nodded, then glanced at his wrist watch. 

“My lunch is over,” he said. “I’ll speak with the sergeant.”

\------ 

Phryne’s sketch was emblazoned on the front page of _The Argus_ the following morning, and after a quick walk past Foyle’s shop--he was there, talking to a customer as if he was not a monster but a simple shopkeeper--she headed to the police station.

Samuels was no more forthcoming, saying that they were chasing up several lines of enquiry, and Phryne could not get him to budge. She stormed out of his small office and into the reception area and towards the door. 

Jack was at the desk again, telephone to his ear and taking notes. He motioned for Phryne to wait, and she stopped, rocking on her heels as she did so. How arrogant could Samuels be? How pig-headed to dismiss her at the expense of a child’s life? She really ought to go give him-- Jack caught her arm, shaking his head, and damn him for reading her even here, even now. He finished his telephone call, hand still on her arm, and hung up.

“Miss Stanley.”

“Hello, constable. How’s the wife?”

The smile he gave was something Phryne was far more accustomed to being directed at herself, and despite herself her heart clenched. She knew he’d loved Rosie, had never resented that; he would not have been her Jack without that history. But there was a distinct difference between knowing it and confronting it here, when she was fifteen years in his future and completely unfathomable to the man he was now. 

Jack gave an easy reply, something about a packed lunch; Phryne nodded mechanically, clenching and unclenching her fists until it passed. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, forcing a smile. 

He leant across the desk, tilting his head away from the back of the station.

“I spoke with the sergeant,” he said.

“So did I,” replied Phryne. “For all the good it did me.”

Jack looked almost remorseful.

“He is following up on your lead. He does want this case solved, despite the impression he’s giving. He has a daughter of his own, you know. But he doesn’t want civilians interfering--”

“Civilians or women?” Phryne asked. “And I’ve never interfered a day in my life.”

Which was a lie neither one of them seemed to believe, but let it stand.

“Until the Victorian Constabulary admits female cadets, they are one and the same.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t have ten years to wait.”

“Ten years?”

“Do you doubt women could do the job, constable?” she challenged archly.

“Absolutely not,” Jack replied. “But it would take a seismic shift in the world to get the top brass moving that quickly.”

“Change is coming,” Phryne said. Four years of war and an influenza epidemic, an economic boom and bust… so much change just around the corner.

Jack smiled. 

“From your mouth to Russell Street’s ear,” he said, and Phryne smiled.

“You have no idea.”

\------

The third morning of her journey had Phryne rising early. She had just under 24 hours to lead the police to Murdoch Foyle, and for the first time she contemplated the alternative. She could not fail in saving Janey, but… well, taking him alive to recover the other girls was optional, rules be damned. She checked her pearl-handled pistol by rote, trying not to contemplate the possibility. She was Phryne Fisher, and she still had some tricks up her sleeve. 

Her first stop was the antiquities shop, which was closed for the day--”Family emergency” declared the note on the door, and Phryne wondered whether Foyle was out, stalking his fourth goddess before he lured her away days later. The thought filled her with dread, and she hurried to the tram stop and headed towards Richmond Police Station.

When she stepped through the doors, she found herself in the midst of chaos. A dozen men were milling about, placing telephone calls and rifling through paperwork, a loud hum filling the room. One of the constables noticed her.

“Miss,” he said, “how can I help you?”

“I came to speak with Sergeant Samuels,” she replied. “What’s going on?”

Samuels came out from the back office.

“Miss Stanley!” he said. “I was hoping to speak with you again.”

“Any luck finding our mystery man?” Phryne asked, her intuition still protesting from deep in her gut. 

“Not yet,” he said with a shake of his head. 

“What’s going on here?” Phryne asked again; the officers were still moving with purpose, paying no mind to the woman in their midst. 

“We have another missing girl.”

“Who?” Phryne asked. Samuels didn’t immediately reply, and panic engulfed her. “What’s her name, sergeant?”

Samuels looked at the paper in front of him.

“Janey Fisher.”

A roar filled her ears; hands clenched, fingernails digging into her palm; she could not breath, could not think, could not fail. She was going to be too late. 

She refused to be too late. 

“Do you think it’s connected to Myrtle Hill’s disappearance?” she asked.

“It’s possible.”

“I think I might be of some assistance, then,” she said, her voice sounding tinny and distant, but steady. “That’s why I came here. Yesterday afternoon, I went to an antiquities shop in Abbotsford. Somers Street.” She rustled in her handbag for her prop, some part of her aware that it was an unnecessary piece of theatre now. He had Janey. Somehow, he had Janey two days too soon. She pulled out Grandmother Fisher’s swallow pin. “I wanted a price for this… It doesn’t matter. I--when I was there, I recognised the proprietor. Murdoch Foyle. I’m certain he’s the man I saw with Myrtle Hill. Here, I have his card.”

Samuels took the card from her, looking at her evaluatively. She tried desperately not to scream. She had to hold herself together. 

“Alright, Miss Stanley,” Samuels said. “We’ll go speak with Mr. Foyle.” 

\------

Phryne stood across the road, watching the police enter Foyle’s antique shop, her chest tight. They’d be in time. They had to. She tugged at her dress, bunching the fabric in her fist as she tried not to scream. She’d be safe. Janey, dear, dear Janey would be alive. She could… oh, she could do anything. She’d be there when their father inherited the title, go to a good school, be warm and well-fed, gain independence. Janey would _live_. They just had to get there in time.

Every second felt like hours, the police rounding the back before entering from both doors. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Ears straining to hear anything. A tick. A moment. Every part of Phryne on edge, waiting. She could make out shapes through the curtains, vague but moving, and her breath caught. She couldn’t breathe, wouldn’t breathe until she knew her sister was safe and well, her body caught in a vice of torture and unable to act. They would be in time.

Finally the door opened, and Phryne leant forward-- _Janey_! Janey, terrified but alive. She wanted to fly across the road, wrap her sister in a hug and promise to keep her safe always. Phryne knew she could not do such a thing, but found herself on the balls of her feet ready to run. The constable helping Janey hurried her away, and the moment passed.

Foyle came out only seconds later, his arms shackled behind his back. 

_I won_ , she wanted to scream. _I won, you foul bastard_. 

It was a hollow victory, knowing that there were girls she had not been able to save, but she had won. Janey was alive. 

Her elation only lasted for a moment, Foyle followed by Sergeant Samuels, shouting to call an ambulance, blood on his hands and streaked across his cheek. All the energy, all the resistance to running snapped and Phryne hurtled across the road.

“Miss Stanley--”

“I’m a nurse,” she lied, and Samuels looked at her doubtfully. “Or near enough. What happ--”

From the new position she could see inside the antique shop. See the young constable on the floor, another man holding cloth to the wound. Without waiting for a response she moved inside, mentally assessing what she had to hand to keep him alive until the ambulance arrived. She motioned the officer away. It was a leg wound, quite possibly an artery--she managed a makeshift tourniquet and tried to stem the flow of blood.

“Constable Robinson,” she said, every moment of her wartime experience the only thing keeping her voice steady. “Your missus is gonna cause a right ruckus when she sees what you’ve done to your uniform.”

He laughed weakly. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Rosie hates doing laundry.”

“Well then, it was inconsiderate of you to--no, don’t try to sit up, you fool--it was very inconsiderate of you to get yourself stabbed.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The bleeding wasn’t slowing down, not enough. His pulse was thudding, quick and erratic, his heart struggling to pump the remainder of the blood around his body. She tried to remain detached, go through the motions, treat him like any other wounded man; the alternative was to break, and that was a price she could not afford to pay. She looked to Jack’s face, already an ashen grey colour; so very young, and unlikely to get any older. But they were still his eyes, warm and blue.

“Try not to move,” she said, looking away once more.

“Could you--could you tell Rosie…” he swallowed, his breathing shallower. “Can you tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry?”

So many men had asked this of her, so many thinking in their last moments of the ones they loved. But not Jack. Not her Jack. But he wasn’t her Jack, would never be her Jack. There would be no battle of wits between two unlikely allies, no need for him to stand guard against her shadows, no tentative discovery of love she had never thought she’d wanted. There would be no knowing lazy mornings in bed with him, the way he would read her snippets from his books, no… she could feel the memories slipping away with every weakening pulse of his heart. She tried to hold them tighter--the feel of his hands against her skin, his favourite food, the sounds he made as they made love, his desperately irritating habit of… it was gone. It had never… what was his mother’s name? Where did he ride his bike? When he’d followed her to England, drenched in the autumn rain and so alive, what had he said? She redoubled her efforts, heard her voice crack as she begged him to stay alive, felt the warmth of his blood on her hands and marked the last rattled breath in his chest.

He was gone.

Phryne looked at the young constable, with a pretty wife and a bright future, and felt sadness. The tears on her cheeks were a surprise, but these things did happen. He had been a good man, kind and funny. His poor wife. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she stood and washed the blood from her hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why my brain went HERE when I saw the trope, but, uh... it was interesting. It could be a whole multichapter fic, but there are only so many hours in the day.


End file.
